For the Record
by Tintern Abbey
Summary: Nearly ten years after the strike, Spot Conlon is in jail and gets an unexpected visit from an old acquaintance.


_Disclaimer: Disney owns it all. I'm just borrowing the characters._

 _Note: I originally posted this under another account, back in early 2012, I think? I then took it down, thinking I was going to rewrite it as an original piece. But since that hasn't happened and I've always liked this story, I'm dusting it off and posting it back up. Enjoy!_

* * *

 **For the Record**

 _Tap, tap, tap, tap._

The first thing I heard was his sensible leather shoes stepping into the room, all careful and purposeful as if this visit actually meant something. You learned to pay close attention to the sound of people's shoes when you was stuck sitting in a cell all day, and I could tell this wasn't some priest coming to tell me what a sinner I was, or a copper wanting to move me someplace else.

This was a respectable kinda fella, with a respectable way of walking in his respectable shoes, and as he got closer I could see his respectable little outfit; all spick-and-span like he was out making a house call instead of visiting an inmate. The guy hadn't said a single word and I could already tell he was out of place, like a dockworker at a fancy mansion party or a hooker at a sewing circle. I sat up a little straighter in my hard wooden chair, mindful of the handcuffs that bound my wrists together, and cast a bored glance at the guard posted a few feet away.

I was always bored, stuck in a joint like this.

"Spot Conlon?"

He stood a few feet away from my chair, peering at me from a safe distance, and I figured he wasn't used to meeting people in a dingy little room like this one. The only furniture was my wooden chair with a matching wooden table in front of it—to put a barrier between me and my visitor—and the place had no windows, just in case I did something crazy like knock out the guards and try to escape. They reserved this little room just for visits like these and marched me out of my cell, making sure I was carefully guarded with a fella on all sides of me, 'cause they wasn't taking no chances with a prisoner like me.

It was nice knowing that people still thought I was dangerous.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" I asked.

 _Tap, tap._ He stepped a little closer, though I didn't bother to look up into his face. "So it _is_ you," he said. "You haven't changed one bit."

Say, wait a minute. I knew that proper-sounding voice. "I'll be damned," I said all casual-like, as if I was still a kid sitting on the docks of Brooklyn, thinking I was a king. "If it ain't David Jacobs, the Walkin' Mouth. Never thought I'd see _you_ in a joint like this."

"I could say the same," said David.

"What, are you some kinda comedian now? _'Course_ I ended up in jail, Davey. I bet there wasn't a single newsie in all of New York who didn't expect me to get behind bars sooner or later."

"You didn't have to live up to their expectations."

What was ol' Davey Jacobs here for, anyway? I hadn't seen the fella in years, and next thing I know he's here to lecture me? Gimme a break. "Ain't nothing I have to do or _don't_ have to do, Davey," I said. "I just live my life, and I don't see how it affects you any."

He stared at me real hard, those smartass blue eyes of his peering into my face, trying to read my thoughts, no doubt. I bet he felt confidant knowing there was guards standing at either side of him, too. "No, jail hasn't changed you one bit," he said. "Still the same old Spot Conlon, trying his best to get by with arrogance."

Boy, I wasn't the only one who hadn't changed. David looked and sounded the same as ever, only he was dressed in a plain, respectable suit that made him look like a real jackass. Still had that same curly hair though, and when I looked close at his left hand I saw a shiny gold band glinting on his finger, all bright and obvious despite the dim lighting in the room. Huh. It figured that David would settle down and get married, and I bet his wife was just as plain and respectable and moral as that sensible suit he was wearing.

David Jacobs was exactly what I imagined he would be in this day and age of 1908, nearly ten years after the Newsboys Strike. Some fellas just couldn't surprise you, no matter how much time had passed.

"What are you doing here, Davey? You come here to see how the mighty Spot Conlon, once the newsie king of Brooklyn, has fallen? If you want something to stare at, go to a zoo and look at some monkeys."

"I'm not here to gawk at you, Spot. I just want to ask you a few questions about the shooting of Dennis Kirby."

 _Now_ we was getting somewhere. "And I don't see how that's any of your business. What's a fella like _you_ care, anyway?"

That was when David pulled out a little notebook and a pen, just like that fella Denton who was always hanging around all those years ago, and I knew what was gonna come out of his mouth before he even said it. "I volunteered to write an article on the shooting, Spot. _That's_ why. So I'd really appreciate it if you cooperated and answered my questions."

"What, you're some kinda reporter now? How respectable of you."

He didn't look offended. "I write for _The World_."

"Oh, even more respectable. Go right ahead and work for the crooks who tried to cheat you."

"I'm not here to talk about my job, Spot. Why did you shoot Dennis Kirby on the evening of May 25th?"

I wanted to laugh at how serious he looked. David was always a serious fella, but that moment right there just took the cake. "Why don't you just talk to a cop if you want to know so bad? They obviously know the story, otherwise they wouldn't of caught me, would they?"

"Maybe I want to hear the story from your own mouth, not some policeman's. I don't think it should be too hard for you to remember something that happened two weeks ago."

David had a lot of nerve, but then again, he _always_ had a lot of nerve. "Dennis Kirby was a lousy son of a bitch who didn't respect nobody," I said. "We was rivals for about three years, running with separate gangs and all, so is it any wonder I pulled a gun on the fella? Really, Davey, I thought you was smart."

He just looked at me, notebook held tightly in one hand, and I knew he didn't buy it. "I know what the police found," he said, still as calm as ever. "I know what happened when that bullet entered Kirby's chest. But what happened _before_ that?"

If it wasn't for the handcuffs and the guards, I would have gotten up and sauntered right out of there. Dennis Kirby might have had a sissy sounding name, but he was one of the toughest fellas in Brooklyn and didn't hesitate to let everyone know it. I could still see his shaggy dark hair, like a dog's, and his dark eyes that got fired up faster than you could blink. Boy, he had a temper on him, and after trying to scare me for three years he finally resorted to the worst sort of tactics; the kind that even _I_ wouldn't resort to.

My hands clenched into fists. "He forced himself on my girl. Almost killed her doing it."

David's perfectly sensible face finally showed a crack in it. His eyes got a bit wider and he held his little notebook open like he planned to write in it, but his pen didn't move. "I see," he said.

"Can you really blame me for going after the bastard? How would you like it if some brute got a hold of your nice little wife, eh?" I nodded toward the ring that circled his finger. "What would you do if your sweet and innocent Mrs. Jacobs couldn't even _look_ at you anymore, 'cause the shame and the fear was so bad, and she knew she was never gonna get over it for as long as she fucking lived—"

"All right," David cut in. "I get what you're saying."

"But I don't think you _do_ , Davey. You've always been a man of words and I respect that. I get plenty of use out of words myself, but sometimes words just ain't gonna cut it, and that's when things have to get a little ugly. Fellas like Dennis Kirby don't play with words, you know, and you wouldn't want me to play an unfair game, now would you?"

David pressed his mouth into a thin line and didn't say nothing for a moment. I had unnerved him.

"What was her name?" he finally asked.

Of all the questions following my little speech, he had to ask _that_ one? "They called her Jewel," I replied. "She wasn't no rich girl, but she liked rich things. Maybe she still _does_ like rich things, wherever she is, but I wouldn't know. She ain't been to see me at all since I got locked up."

Jewel was something else, as far as dames went. Sure, she wanted me to give her bracelets and necklaces and fancy things, but she was real loyal and wouldn't have betrayed me for the world. I ought to know, since a couple of girls I'd been with in the past were seeing fellas on the side, but I straightened those broads out real quick. Didn't hurt 'em or nothing, but I made it clear that they wasn't to double-cross Spot Conlon again, as long as they lived.

Jewel wasn't like them. Never looked twice at any other fella, and she wouldn't let me touch her after Kirby got his filthy paws on her. Wouldn't even let me hold her hand. Any bastard who mistreated a dame like that _deserved_ to get roughed up as far as I was concerned.

David's face turned all serious again, but it wasn't as businesslike as before. He looked kind of—I don't know— _thoughtful_ , maybe, like I'd said something real smart. "Do you ever wish we were still newsies?" he asked.

I had to chuckle at this random change of topic. "What, you miss being on the bottom rung of the ladder, Davey? You want to give up your nice suit and your nice wife for the good old days?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"And _you_ didn't answer mine. Sure, I miss shooting at birds with my slingshot and making all the neighborhood boys fear me, but we can't go back to that. You say I'm the same as ever, but I really ain't the same at all, and there's bigger things than ol' Pulitzer out there to worry about."

David still hadn't written a single word in that notebook of his. "I guess you're right," he said. "And I wish we had met each other again under different circumstances."

I knew what he was thinking. He wished he could have done something to keep me out of the gangs and away from the life I lived. He wished I would have gotten married like he did, and turned all respectable with a sensible suit of clothes and an honorable job in the community. David didn't understand that the streets of Brooklyn had shaped me all my life, and saying goodbye to those streets was like trying to say goodbye to a parent forever.

"My circumstances ain't a thing like yours," I said, looking calmly at him from my chair. "And they never was. Go home to your wife and write your article about me if you want to, but you ain't never gonna understand what put me in these handcuffs."

David's gaze was as steady as ever, and I just gazed right back at him. I hadn't lost my touch when it came to staring people down, but David was always the one person I couldn't intimidate with a look. "I'll be back tomorrow," he said, closing his notebook shut with a snap. "We can start all over, right from the beginning of your story."

I wasn't sure if he meant the story of the shooting or some bigger story that started further back, but I didn't ask. One of the guards escorted David from the room, while the other one stayed behind to keep an eye on me, never taking his hand from the gun at his belt. I heard those sensible shoes of David's _tap-tapping_ away from me, until the sound faded into nothing and I was left with the silence.

David Jacobs was a lucky fella.


End file.
